


All Are Not Merry That Dance Lightly

by 28ghosts



Series: DS9 Rarepairs [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Episode: s06e19 In The Pale Moonlight, Implied/Referenced D/s, M/M, background Benjamin Sisko/Kasidy Yates and Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, open relationships implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14054409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts
Summary: Benjamin Sisko finds that Dr. Bashir isn't long distracted by the good news of the Romulans joining the war effort, and his resentment over being forced to hand over five liters of bio-mimetic gel has its own consequences.(Coda to SE06EP19: In The Pale Moonlight.)





	All Are Not Merry That Dance Lightly

Benjamin should have known that Julian Bashir isn’t the sort of man who can be distracted for long by good news.

His CMO is standing stiff-shouldered on the other side of Benjamin's desk, jaw clenched. His hands are clasped behind his back like Dax sometimes does. On Benjamin’s desk is Bashir's official complaint to Starfleet, which, of course, Benjamin is obliged to sign off on. Nevermind that it's a complaint against _him_ that Bashir is formally lodging.

He should sit up straighter and at least play at taking the man's complaint seriously, but it's hard. Bio-mimetic gel is a controlled substance, yes, and its use is strictly regulated by the Federation, yes; these things are true. The exchange of bio-mimetic gel for a forged datarod was also approved by the Federation. Bashir's complaint will be received and ignored.

So he glances over the padd and signs where he ought to. He leaves it on his desk and leans back in his chair, one hand to his chin, and studies the way Bashir manages not to look at him as he takes the padd back. Bashir leaves.

That it should bother him more is the principal thing that bothers Benjamin Sisko.

* * *

Bashir doesn't let it rest; of course he doesn't. And Benjamin would be perfectly willing to wait for the man to get distracted by whatever next pretty thing in a short skirt next crosses his field of vision if it weren't for how obvious Bashir makes it. He's curt during briefings, always the first to leave. Dax notices, of course, but doesn't ask. Odo asks.

"A minor disagreement, Constable," Benjamin tells him, as they're walking side by side to the wardroom. "He'll make his peace with it."

Odo grunts in what is meant to be interpreted as acknowledgement, but Benjamin knows his head of security well enough to hear the echo of skepticism.

"If you have any concerns, Constable, I trust you'll share them."

"Hmm." Odo tilts his head to himself and sighs. For an being that doesn't, strictly speaking, need to breathe, Odo sighs more often than you might expect. "During senior staff meetings, it's not an issue."

Someone else might hear a reassurance, but Odo has that same damned recalcitrant politeness that makes diplomacy with the upper crust so difficult. It's hard to get him to directly contradict orders, even when Benjamin needs him to. "You think it's bad for morale.”

They've both slowed their paces, a hall and a half away from the wardroom. It's Odo to stop. They stand at angles to each other, alone for now, in one of the station's dark, narrow corridors. "Everything lately seems to be bad for morale," Odo says; it might be a joke.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." Odo's face contorts in displeasure, but apparently he manages to push through whatever awkwardness he's feeling. "Nerys may have mentioned offhand that it's not only the senior staff who have noticed."

"Ah."

Benjamin thinks it over. He can't really blame Bashir. From his CMO's perspective, after all, he was ordered by his captain to take an action that seemed -- and which was -- unethical. And though he's submitted a complaint, he's received no recourse. And, Benjamin knows, Bashir's protests will go entirely ignored.

It’s what makes Benjamin so willing to send Bashir into the lion's den of Section 31 that makes Bashir so unwilling to go along with what he doesn't know was the only option. There's a rigidness to Bashir, a brittleness, that Benjamin can't help but respect. Bashir is no collaborator. Benjamin is, when it’s the only option.

"Thank you for mentioning that, Constable. I will...attempt to address the situation."

Odo hmms again, once, shortly; he's pleased. He follows Benjamin into the wardroom without additional commentary.

* * *

A day later, Benjamin Sisko stops by the infirmary.

Julian Bashir has submitted more than a dozen formal requests to Starfleet asking for more resources. Permission to expand. Once or twice Benjamin has been asked by Starfleet how he feels about these requests. His response has always been: I trust my Chief Medical Officer. If he says the infirmary needs to be expanded, then I am in agreement.

It hasn't happened yet, not even in the wake of the war. Their station carries on with a medical station designed to treat the Cardassian overseers who happened to be caught on the fringes of explosions that killed Bajorans. Bashir manages to make it work, somehow.

A nurse he doesn't know greets him by name. He tells her to tell Dr. Bashir that when he has a moment, and so on. She nods, overly deferential.

One of the station's many Bajorans over-awed by his station as Emissary. Benjamin doesn't resent it as he once did, but he will never be truly comfortable with it.

A few minutes later, she comes back. "Dr. Bashir will meet you in his office," she says.

He issues his thanks and lets her lead him to the one private office the infirmary has. Bashir isn't there; he must be with a patient or in a surgery. But the nurse leaves him alone. He indulges in the urge to investigate, to examine every detail of his CMO's most public of private places.

There are padds stacked on every surface, but neatly; Benjamin doesn't doubt that Bashir could tell him the contents of each of them. Bashir's diploma is not displayed, which -- perhaps uncharitably -- Benjamin finds surprising. Abstractly, as if he’s a man who believes the war to be winnable, as if he’s a man who sees himself working for Starfleet until he dies, Benjamin notes to himself: always visit their offices. The next time you have an officer like this, don't wait until there's already a rift between you two to do this.

No diploma, but there are a few awards scattered on a display case. The case itself only holds reference padds and texts. Old-fashioned books, which Benjamin hadn't assumed Bashir would be a fan of. More fool he.

Bashir lets him wait long enough that Benjamin feels justified in taking the doctor's chair. He sits behind Bashir's desk as if it's his own, nevermind the unfamiliar terminal in front of him or the stacks of patient padds waiting to be tended to. He sits behind Bashir's desk, and he waits.

It's nearly half an hour later that the door finally dilates, and there's Bashir, restrained and furious. "I apologize for keeping you waiting, Captain." The last word comes out like an epithet. "I'm glad to see you've made yourself comfortable while I've kept you."

Once upon a time, when Curzon Dax had seemed unapproachable and terrifying, Benjamin had hated the way Curzon could stay so casual when others came seeking him. Now, Benjamin leans back in Bashir's chair. He crosses one leg over the other and steeples his fingers together. He lets Bashir stew in the doorway of his own office.

After just a few breaths, Bashir says, "I suppose this is about my conduct."

"You suppose correctly," says Benjamin.

At least Bashir remains easy to bait.

Bashir nearly says something. He stops himself at the last second.

"I'll consider this off the record, Doctor, if that makes you more forthcoming," Benjamin says. "I understand and respect that you take issue with what has been required of you as a Starfleet officer. You have submitted your complaint. What other..." He lets his voice go ironic for a moment. "...support can I provide you, as your commanding officer, to make it easier for you to follow respectfully even the most mundane of orders?"

Bashir's expression curls into something ugly, as Benjamin had expected. “With respect, Captain, it’s not the mundane orders I find difficult to follow.”

"I can't tell you what you want to hear, Doctor," Benjamin says.

If only Bashir would downturn his stare; he doesn't.

"I can't tell you that no one will be hurt because of what you did. And I can't tell you that you were right to yield."

Because that's his concern, isn't it? The Federation only occupies Deep Space Nine because, once upon a time, Cardassians who knew better than to obey orders did what they were told to do -- they obeyed orders.

At least Bashir looks away for a fraction of a second.

The doctor's eyes flutter closed. There's no better verb for it than fluttered. He has long eyelashes, and Bashir’s office is small enough that even across the room Benjamin can see it, and there is something self-loathing and coy about it all. "I know," he says; his voice is hoarse.

"What do you know?"

"I know all I need to," he says, with irony. "That E -- that Garak was involved."

Benjamin does as Odo would do; he hmms in what could be agreement. "Perhaps I play it safe it assuming that Mr. Garak is involved in most things on this station."

That, at least, gets the hint of a laugh.

"Doctor," Benjamin says.

Bashir holds so still.

"I cannot give you an explanation which will satisfy you. I cannot give you an order which will let you sleep easily. Do you understand?"

After a moment, Bashir nods, guiltily.

He is older than Kira is, Benjamin has to remind himself. Perhaps he is manipulating Bashir, but Bashir is old enough to anticipate it. To dodge it. To avoid it. Isn't he?

"What I am asking you to do, Doctor, is trust me."

Finally, Bashir's posture changes: in an instant, he deflates. His shoulders slump, and one hand comes to his face to rub at the bridge of his nose, then to his temples. Bashir's fingers are long, Benjamin notices.

The fight is gone; Benjamin knows he's won out.

He braces his hands on Bashir's desk and stands. Bashir is only a few meters away, and Benjamin crosses the small office to stand in front of him. Bashir is taller than him, but the man is slight and young, and he's easy to crowd. "I regret the situation, too, Doctor. But I need to know you won't drag this out any further. You have every right to feel angry, and I acknowledge that. But especially in front of the rest of the crew, especially right now, the senior staff needs to stand together. Can you do that?"

Bashir sighs and nods. "Yes, sir."

Maybe he shouldn't, but Benjamin reaches for the doctor's shoulder. It's meant as a brief indication of reassurance -- and yet the way the doctor leans into it is immediate and unambiguous. For a moment, Benjamin is dumbstruck with relief that Jake wants nothing to do with Starfleet. If he's raised Jake right, Jake would make the same decision as Bashir, would fight it the same way.

Bashir's hand covers his eyes now, and distantly, Benjamin hopes the man isn't about to cry. When Bashir's speaks again, his voice is strained, but it's with the effort of keeping himself controlled. "I apologize," Bashir manages to say. "I'll -- I'll ensure my behavior in the future is more acceptable."

"That's all I can ask, Doctor."

Unexpectedly, Bashir's voice goes hard. It's better than close to tears, though. "You know why I did it."

"I do."

"Surely you can't blame me."

Gently, "I don't."

Bashir sighs through his teeth, and his hand drops, and he looks through his lashes at Benjamin.

Benjamin recognizes the spark in Bashir's eyes. And he recognizes the furious way Bashir isn't hiding it, the way the younger man is using attraction as a cudgel, as a way of pushing him away.

Kasidy is going to love hearing about this, he thinks to himself. He keeps his hold on Bashir's shoulder and expects to resign himself, but it's a more complicated feeling than resignation -- more interest than he'd expected himself to feel, and more gratification.

Usually Benjamin does not like to entwine power and sex. Sex should be between equals, something celebratory. And yet to be in control of something, if only for a few hours, has, for the moment, intoxicating potential. It would be nice to dictate how things go, just for awhile. To give orders that he knows will be obeyed, to give orders that will help someone.

"I know what that look means, Dr. Bashir," he says. He lets his voice go cold. "Do _you_?"

No verbal acknowledgement, but the little intake of breath, the widening of the eyes -- Benjamin knows what this means, too.

"I'll give you what you want, if you're sure."

Bashir doesn't look away.

"And if you're sure -- only if you're sure -- I'll help you forget."

The slightest nod.

Benjamin lets his hand drop from Bashir's shoulder. He lifts his chin and stares at Bashir down his nose, turning the possibilities over in his mind. "If you're sure, Doctor..."

Electricity in the air, and Benjamin lets himself smile. He steps back and turns towards Bashir's desk, eyeing the height of the desk.

To the back wall, Benjamin says, "If you're sure, then on your knees."

He doesn't have to turn. He feels Bashir hit the floor through the vibrations in the floor, hears the dull sound of body against steel.

It's been a long time since he played this game, and he knows on a certain level that if he didn't feel so damned guilty that he wouldn't be doing this. That he's only stepping in to distract Bashir from his conscience because he himself knows that what he's done was wrong.

Because Benjamin does know that, and knows that he’s a bit too comfortable with it. And they're the both of them probably reckoning with what it means to end up complicit in Garak's convoluted schemes, even when they're aimed in service of the greater good. Perhaps Bashir, even though he can't know the magnitude of what Garak and Benjamin have done, is the only one with any idea of what Benjamin is reckoning with. The Federation doctor and his Cardassian torturer friend. The man whose credo is do no harm having lunch with a man who's surely done more than his fair share.

Maybe Benjamin needs this more than he's willing to admit to himself.

He turns on his heel to see Bashir on his knees, hands tucked behind his back, eyes cast down. And Benjamin prepares to give his orders.


End file.
